


The Kelpien Curiosity Shop

by strangeallure



Series: It's the Great Mushroom, Charlie Brown [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Halloween Challenge, Hand-To-Hand Combat, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Rituals, Victorian, mycelial shenanigans, saru is a badass, scary stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Canon-divergent from the end of 1x13 "What's Past Is Prologue".Paul wakes up in a Victorian-era curiosity shop. It's also a trap.





	The Kelpien Curiosity Shop

**Author's Note:**

> **Series premise** : Paul and the Discovery crew are trapped inside a mycelial network still battling the effects of Terran contamination. They try to ride out the infection, waiting for the network to heal itself. Meanwhile, they are thrown into ever-changing situations they can only survive by working together. Stories stand alone, but tie into a larger arc.
> 
> Thanks to frangipani for pushing, encouraging and helping clean up the fight scene.

Paul’s huddling behind a display case, his eyes popping open with the shock of being pulled into something that feels like his own body, but in an entirely new environment, a new … _scenario_ , as Tilly put it.

Which reminds him: where _is_ she? He looks around, staying in the crouched position he found himself in. He’s in a kind of store, he thinks. The lights are dim, but there are display cases and shelves packed with all sorts of strange wares, some look vaguely familiar and some completely alien. There’s a skylight a few paces down from his position, and he can see what looks like Luna, Earth’s moon, shining bright and full. Tilly is nowhere to be found.

Right. He remembers Hugh’s voice, assuring him: “Even if you won’t see her for a while, know that you saved her.”

Paul has to believe that’s true. He has to because Hugh believes in him, and if Paul lives up to Hugh’s expectations, he’ll be able to bring him back. He couldn’t save Hugh the first time, but he won’t fail him again.

His hand comes up to scratch at his neck and he notices his clothes for the first time. He’s wearing a … he furrows his brow, confused … a dark ensemble, like an antiquated suit with a fitted waistcoat and something that looks like a … _cravat_ , was it? If Paul’s ex hadn’t been a history professor with a faible for reenactments, he wouldn’t even know the word. Before he dated Sundar, he could never tell human culture from the former and latter half of the second millennium apart, but thanks to one private lecture too many, he’s pretty sure this is 20th century garb, maybe 19th century. Most peculiar, as Sundar would say.

Paul’s eyes have adjusted to the low light, and he can hear someone talking not too far away. Maybe it’s Tilly or someone else from his crew.

He sneaks closer to the voice, careful not to draw attention to himself, to stay in the shadows.

There’s a counter with one person on either side, talking in hushed tones, like they’re sharing a secret. Both of the people look familiar, even if they are attired like he’s never seen them before. Paul heaves a sigh of relief as he pulls himself to his full height.

“Burnham, Saru,” he says, his voice happier than he would have anticipated. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Both turn around, Burnham greeting him with “Good to see you, too, Master Stamets.” Her cadence is no more formal than usual, but her use of the word “master” puts him on his toes still. 

A closer look at the other person reveals a reason for her peculiar phrasing. The man, dressed in a suit similar to the one Paul is wearing, is not Discovery’s first officer at all, but a different Kelpien. 

Strange. Saru is the first and only of his species to serve in Starfleet, and Paul has never even seen another of his kind in the flesh before.

The man strokes his long fingers along the back of his smooth head in a gesture that nevertheless reminds Paul of Saru. 

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he says, his tone mellifluous. “My name is Curu. I’m the proprietor of this humble establishment. How may I serve you?”

Paul swallows. “Master Curu,” he says, taking his cue from Burnham, “may I steal my friend away for a moment?” He gestures for her to follow him a few paces down an aisle of shelves, out of earshot.

“Of course, of course,” the shopkeeper says, though his solicitousness seems to grow every-so-slightly forced.

“Burnham,” Paul whispers sharply, “do you know what’s going on here?”

“I am not quite certain, sir,” she says, pulling at the frilly fabric of her blouse. “That man was just about to sell me a clock that can turn back time.”

Paul gapes. “A what?”

“A clock that’s supposed to-”

Paul cuts her off with a handwave. “Nevermind. The thing is, we’re still in the mycelial network.”

Burnham nods her head without any indication of surprise as he continues, “It’s still fighting that infection the Terrans were responsible for, that’s what’s causing this … experience.”

“Okay,” she says, like that’s a satisfactory explanation for waking up several hundred years in the past, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Then again, they’ve just found out that alternate universes exist and that most of them have evil counterparts, who, admittedly, wear very stylish uniforms. Maybe this isn’t that hard to believe in comparison.

“We just have to ride it out. The last scenario I experienced was highly dangerous, but it had a defined endpoint. Once Tilly and I reached it, the threat disappeared.” He takes a breath. “And then I woke up here.”

Burnham’s brow furrows. “And Tilly? Is she-”

“Yes,” Paul briefly touches her lower arm, a soothing gesture that would come much more naturally to Hugh than him, “she’s safe.”

Paul sees the Kelpien, Curu, fidgeting in the background. If this works like he thinks it does, they probably shouldn’t keep him waiting for too long.

“So let’s just figure out that endpoint and get to it,” he says and motions for her to return to the counter with him.

“My friend,” Burnham says to Curu, her diction pleasant, “shares my interest in the item we just discussed.”

“Of course, of course,” the man says with two small bows, pressing his palms together in an obedient gesture. It doesn’t sit quite right with Paul, but as a naturally forthright person, his tolerance for schmoozing is relatively low.

“Master Stamets, is it?” the shopkeeper asks solicitously, a calculating glint in his eye as he slides two fingers along the shell of his ear. He probably imagines the coins he could get from Paul for his phony device. Or did they have paper money in this era? Whatever currency they use, he probably expects Paul to have plenty of it. He does look pretty dapper, if he says so himself.

“If the both of you would like to follow me to the back room, I can give you a quick demonstration.” Curu smiles with more teeth than Paul has ever seen in Saru. “To whet your appetites,” he adds with a conspiratorial grin.

They follow him to a heavy wooden door, and he opens it with an ornate key.

“After you, madam,” the proprietor nods at Burnham, then at Paul, “sir.” He bows deeply as he holds the door open for them. 

The room is dark, but seems rather small. Before Paul can orient himself, a blindingly harsh overhead light turns on and the floor gives out under him. He yelps, flailing his arms to find purchase, to keep himself from falling, but it’s no use. After a second or two, his ass hits the ground several meters lower than expected, and Paul lets out an undignified yelp.

Next to him, and despite several voluminous skirts layered on top of each other, Michael Burnham landed much more gracefully and is already pulling herself upright again.

“A trap door,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Indeed,” Curu confirms from above, closing down a metal hatch above their heads. It slides into place with a final-sounding creak, a perfect match to the grooves in the steel bars surrounding them.

They’re trapped in a cage.

“Madam Burnham _and_ Master Stamets, both happening to visit my modest little shop - and just at the right time, too. What a fortuitous coincidence.” Paul was definitely right to dislike his officious mannerisms. The proprietor’s smooth voice turns into something akin to a cackle. “Master Quilp will be so pleased,” he adds, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.

“How about we negotiate,” Burnham calls up to him, “I’m sure we can make you a better offer.”

Paul can’t read the tone in the Kelpien’s voice when he replies, “That seems highly unlikely, I’m afraid,” but it doesn’t sound good. And then Paul hears the wooden door slam shut. At least Curu leaves the light on.

In the corner of the cage, he spots a tall and lanky figure in a simple gray coat. The person gets up and takes a step towards Paul and Burnham.

“Lieutenant Commander Stamets, Specialist Burnham,” the man says, “I am so relieved to see you, albeit under these terrible circumstances.”

Count on Saru to use their full rank and title even in the most dire situations.

“Saru, do you know what’s going on here?” Paul asks.

“I’m afraid we’re trapped in some twisted version of the mycelial network,” Saru replies.

Paul feels his face shift, impressed. “Yes, exactly,” he confirms. He’d like to know how Saru figured it out. Did Hugh talk to him, too? They have much more pressing matters to attend to, however, so they focus on quickly exchanging what little information they have. 

Apparently, Saru was trapped by Curu, the “miscreant” (his word), maybe ten minutes before Burnham and Paul fell into the cage, while Burnham found herself with the shopkeeper right in the middle of a conversation about illegal time travel devices only a minute or two before Paul interrupted them. 

None of them seem to have any useful information, nothing that could help the three of them escape. 

Their cage is completely empty, no food or drink or so much as a cot to sit on. They seem to be in an unfurnished basement with no windows. There’s a big iron door barely visible in the shadows on the far wall and some wooden crates stacked in an out-of-reach corner past the bars. 

Saru, who’s considerably stronger than any human, has already tried to get the metal bars to so much as budge without success, and none of them has an idea on how to get out - or even why Curu trapped them here in the first place. What’s his endgame?

But there needs to be something, some type of clue. Hugh told him they could ride it out, so there has to be a way to do so. There has to be. They just need to figure it out.

All they know right now is that someone named Quilp will be happy that Burnham and Stamets specifically got caught. 

“And that this is ‘just the right time’,” Burnham adds. “Whatever that may refer to.”

“I cannot begin to guess,” Saru says. “I saw no clock or calendar or any other indication of time in the shop, and the sales counter is situated so far back that I didn’t even see a window.”

Burnham nods in agreement, but Paul remembers something. “I came to on the other side of the store,” he says, a little excitement seeping back into his voice. “There was a skylight, and it was night outside.”

“Are you sure about that?” Burnham asks. “This seems to be a Victorian setting, and the era was notorious for its air pollution. It’s possible there was just grime and dirt on an overhead window that’s inconvenient to clean, especially on a gloomy day.”

Paul shakes his head. “No, no, I’m sure. I could see a moon that looked a lot like Luna, and it was almost as bright as I remember from Earth.”

“Good,” Burnham says, apparently satisfied, “new data. New data means progress.”

Paul agrees in principle. “But only if we have other data to combine it with, make it mean something.” His eyes flit to Saru. He’s faster and stronger than humans, with more acute senses. They have to be able to use this to their advantage. “Saru, is there anything in the shadows you can see that we can’t?”

“As I already told you, Mr. Stamets, I examined everything I could before you arrived,” he replies with an irritated lilt to his voice. “Apart from those boxes over there, this place is impeccably clean.”

“And you probably already tried getting at them, too,” Paul adds, deflating. The corner with the wooden crates is only a few paces outside the metal bars, a mere second away if only they could get out of this damn cage. But even with Saru’s long limbs, they can’t reach the stack of boxes from inside their prison.

“I am sorry,” Saru says, placated. “Even when I managed to push my shoulder joint through the bars, they remained just out of reach.” 

Paul lets out a breath. If only they had more data, anything to mull over and build a theory on.

“ _Just_ out of reach?” Burnham asks, quirking one eyebrow.

“Just, yes,” Saru replies, “but very definitively. I cannot possibly stretch my joints any farther.”

“I don’t doubt it, Saru,” she says, shaking her head. “But maybe you don’t have to.” Her finger go up to her head and she pulls something out of her fancy headpiece.

It’s a metal implement, about the length of her hand. “A hatpin,” she says with a triumphant smile. “Very common among women in this era.”

Her hand flies up again, pulling out another pin. “And mostly worn in pairs.”

Pauls grins at her, renewed hope flashing through him. “Excellent, Burnham.”

They use Paul’s cravat to knot the ends of both pins together, then wrap everything up in his jacket to give it more heft, make it into a kind of paddle for Saru to try and push the top crate onto the floor.

Saru wasn’t kidding when he said he couldn’t have reached any farther. It looks painful, the way he almost dislocates his joints to get his shoulder through the bars and his hand closer to the crates.

At first, he tries a vertical approach, shoving at the side of the container, attempting to make it topple. It doesn’t work. 

Saru’s out of breath, his body vibrating with tension and sweat beading on his bald head. Burnham and Paul are coiled almost as tight, willing the box to finally tip over, but unable to do anything to make it happen. 

Eventually, Saru decides to change tactics. “Maybe,” he says, pulling his limbs back a little and then pushing forward, “if I try and push the top part of this instrument between two crates and use it as a lever, I can get the box to fall.”

“But what if it breaks in the process?” Burnham notes, an unusually high note in her voice. “Then we’ll have nothing.”

“Just like we do now.” Saru says with a sharp look. He has a point.

Saru repositions the implement and says, almost casually, “If Captain Georgiou could see us now.” The flat tip slips underneath the topmost crate. “Me arguing in favor of taking a risk, and you arguing against it.”

Burnham’s lips quirk in an expression that could be tender or aching, Paul really can’t say. 

Saru briefly closes his eyes, sucks in a deep breath and pushes hard.

Burnham was right, even with the fabric reinforcing it, the pin isn’t sturdy enough to withstand the pressure and snaps apart, the upper part falling to the ground with a thud.

But Saru was right, too, and the box on top gives a jerk, balancing dangerously on the rim of the crate below before toppling down.

“Yes!” the three of them shout in unison. Finally.

Saru pulls his body out of between the bars, wincing as he shakes out his limbs, but with a pleased expression. 

Their luck doesn’t run out yet, because the box’s lid slides off and some of its contents tumble onto the floor.

Unfortunately, none of it seems useful.

There are a few small implements made of wood and stone, but none look like they could help break a lock. Other than that, there are several sheets of paper with a script Paul isn’t familiar with.

Another thing he isn’t familiar with is a Kelpien turning white, but that is what happens.

Saru murmurs something under his breath and makes a sign with his left hand, his threat ganglia fluttering wildly.

Burnham notices, too, and it seems to upset her. “What is it, Saru?” The concern in her voice is clear. “Do you know what that is?”

Saru looks at them and swallows. “That’s a well-known text from my homeworld,” he says, voice strange. “Something like holy scripture.”

Paul doesn’t understand why that would have him so upset.

“But that doesn’t look like Kelpian script,” Burnham says, only adding to Paul’s confusion.

Saru strokes his threat ganglia with both hands, like he’s trying to push them back into his skull. “It’s not.” Saru’s voice vibrates with the effort to keep his emotions in. “Regrettably, we aren’t the only species on Kaminar.”

Burnham looks stricken. “Of course.”

It takes Paul a moment to catch up, but then he remembers: Kaminar is a rare example of a strictly binary species map; and Kelpiens fall into the category of prey. Oh.

Saru’s hands stroke along his sides and he squares his shoulders. “It’s a ritual to bind a Kelpien family to their owner.”

“Like a sales contract,” Paul says, disgusted.

To his shock, Saru gives a sharp laugh. “It’s much more than that, Lieutenant Commander. It’s an eternal bond. It binds past and future generations,” he falters, “and it doesn’t end even in death.”

Paul can’t ponder the metaphysical aspects right now, what it would do to someone to think they’ll be bound to their slaveholder for all eternity, regardless of what he personally believes or doesn't believe.

“That’s terrible,” he says, and hopes Saru can let it be enough for now. “But how does it connect to all this?” He makes a sweeping gesture around the room.

“I think I know how.” Saru’s eyes cut away.

“It’s a complicated ritual and you need three family members to perform it. Two siblings and a--” Saru continues to talk, but Paul can’t make sense of the word, a strange accumulation of disparate sounds. Saru seems to sense his confusion. “It translates to _pathfinder_ or guide. In Kelpien families, they are very important. They have the authority to make all final decision on a family’s future.” 

“But we’re not-” Burnham starts, but Saru cuts her off.

“I am quite certain that is why Curu was so pleased to catch the both of you specifically.” He nods primly. “At least in this twisted mycelial version of reality, there is a certain logic to it.”

“I suppose there is.” Burnham smiles at him with uncharacteristic wistfulness.

There’s a lot to unpack here, Paul’s sure, but he’s also sure that they are running out of time.

“I’m sorry to be so blunt,” he says, and finds that this is maybe the first time he means it, “but is there anything about this we can use to our advantage?”

“I think there is,” Saru says, mostly back to his prudent self. “Do you recall the position and phase of the moon?”

They are in the middle of formulating a plan when they hear a key rattle in the lock of the basement door. Saru gives two more instructions under his breath, and then the door opens to reveal Curu and six other creatures, clad in coats similar to the gray one Saru is wearing, their faces obscured by hideous masks that leave their red-smeared mouths exposed. 

Curu’s eyes flick to the open box on the floor with a glint of uneasy surprise. “Well, well, well,” he says, “more resourceful that I would have anticipated.” 

“Not that it will do you any good.” His self-satisfied grin exposes both rows of teeth.

Two of his henchmen set up a wooden table in an elaborate way that seems highly ritualistic, then two others put a slab of intricately marbled stone on top of it. In each corner, there’s an indentation in the form of an open book. Lettering similar to that from the pages Saru called “holy scripture” is carved into the sides of the stone, inlaid with gold. The masked figures murmur what sounds like blessings and perform strange gestures, repeatedly kissing the stone with their dirty mouths, leaving streaks of red all over the surface.

Paul isn’t a religious person, but the ceremonial atmosphere still gets to him, adds to his sense of dread.

Finally, they place a wooden tray onto the table - the altar, Paul realizes - and Curu opens the cage. Two of his lakeys get Saru, just like Saru said they would. They lay out his open hands into one of the book-shaped indentations, then one of the gray figures pulls at a chain around their neck and detaches a little black knife from it. They use it to carve a spiral into Saru’s left palm. With a kiss and a blessing, they deposit the obsidian knife on the wooden tray and step to the other side of the room. Then another masked figure does the same to Saru’s right palm.

Paul dreads what’s coming next, but Saru barely flinches, keeping his head down and his pose defeated until Curu drives golden nails into his hands with a glimmering rock. Bile rises in Paul’s throat as Saru’s cries lift, and he wishes he could do something right the fuck now.

It’s Burnham’s turn next, and she struggles a lot more against their captors, even gets a few good Suus Mahna kicks in, but ultimately, they overpower her, too, and perform the exact same gruesome ritual. All according to plan.

Paul looks at the scene before him, four henchmen to the right side of the room, two close to him, about to pull him out of the cage, and Curu the shopkeeper right in the middle. He spits out the sour taste in his mouth before they get him. 

This is it, their one shot. He has to believe that they didn’t miscalculate. 

Paul tries to resist enough for Curu and his helpers to believe him, but lets himself be subdued fairly quickly. 

He groans and twitches when they carve his palms, makes himself wait until the henchmen are all off to the side and Curu positions the first nail. 

Then Paul charges, gripping the nail tight and driving it into Curu’s threat ganglia at a sharp angle, just like Saru told him to. There’s a spray of blood and viscous fluid, a smell that’s surprisingly sweet.

Paul hears Saru tear his hands free with incredible force and speed just as the shopkeeper collapses with a disbelieving yelp.

He doesn’t want to look, to see the flaps of skin and flesh and sinew, but just like he promised, Saru manages to get a hold of all six knives on the ritual tray. 

The henchmen recover faster than they’ve hoped, though. The world whirls as Paul finds himself in a headlock. The other person’s breath is hot against his forehead. Spit, maybe, or blood trickles onto his skin. 

Suddenly, Paul’s free. He thinks he sees Saru’s shadow behind his attacker, but Paul focuses on using the nail still clasped in his fist. He drives it into the figure’s head, now doubled over in pain.

He and Saru incapacitate another of Curu’s helpers, but the strength is draining from Paul’s body.

They’re still two against four.

If only they could free Burnham, but humans are simply not strong enough to defy those nails. Saru scrambles to help Paul amid holding off the rest of the attackers.

Even he can’t. Not with his badly injured hands. He had anticipated that, too.

Paul’s entire body aches, the pain centering on his arm. Badly sprained or broken. Near useless. 

How can they ever win this? 

No, Paul reminds himself, just as Saru brings down another goon with an impressive punch in the ganglia. Hugh wouldn’t lie to him. They can live through this. There has to be a way to win this scenario.

The next aggressor charges at Paul. Paul opens his arms and lets the henchman bring him down. Paul’s head thuds against the hard floor with an unnatural crack, his assailant dazed above him. Paul pulls himself together enough to close his arms in an embrace, ramming the ritual nail into the soft tissue at the back of the figure’s skull, warm fluid gushing onto his fingers.

Two more to go, he thinks and pushes the heavy body off of him.

Saru is on the ground, close to the altar Burnham is still bound to, two assailants above him. Paul dashes to him as Saru tries to claw into the ganglia of one figure while keeping the other in a choke hold with his long legs.

Before Paul can figure out how to help, Burnham calls his name, “Stamets, help me with this.”

Paul puts the nail between his teeth and positions himself next to Burnham, using both hands to push at the stone while she grunts, pained and deep, and uses her lower body to boost his push and topple the slab of stone in front of them off the wooden table. 

The angle is wrong and Burnham gets flung across the stone much less controlled than they hoped, and the weight and momentum rip one of her hands free. Her sharp cry mingles with that of the Kelpien as the stone slab falls onto both of them, wet cracking sounds ringing through the air. Burnham’s leg is trapped under the stone, and she makes a guttural groan.

“Now, Stamets,” she pushes the words out.

Paul seizes the nail, and darts forward to push it deep into the guy’s head, wrenching it to the side for good measure.

When he looks up, he sees Saru pull half his hand out of the last henchman’s skull, his fingers a flapping mass of bones and tissue. His opponent lies prone, his head a mess. 

Paul looks at Saru in awe. He feels a new sense of admiration for his fellow officer: to act against his flight instincts like that, against his genetic programming as well as upbringing.

Just then, Burnham makes a strange gurgling sound behind him. 

Before he can turn around or say anything, the experience fades and he feels the network pull him into another direction.

“Know that they’re safe,” a voice echoes in his head. He has to believe it’s true, has to believe it’s Hugh looking out for him, giving him strength.

He will see this through, for Hugh and for everyone.

**Author's Note:**

> Today's prompts were bloody hands, moon cycles, a mysterious salesman's strange wares and cage.
> 
> I rarely write fight scenes, so this was fun, but also challenging. If you enjoyed, I'd be happy if you let me know.
> 
> Like all my stories, this is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>  **Feedback** : short comments, long comments, questions, constructive criticism, "<3" as extra kudos, reader-reader interaction
> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)  
>   
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